


Uncertain Beyond

by TwinEnigma



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman Beyond
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Character Death, Doomed Timelines, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel, Time travel is complicated, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4598913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinEnigma/pseuds/TwinEnigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The future is not certain. It's always changing, but some things remain constant. Damian saves Terry's life and, sometimes, Terry saves his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            The wars are getting worse. There isn’t much of Gotham left now and, the way the fighting is going, in a few years there won’t be a Gotham left to protect. Even now, on the reddening horizon, there are flashes of light as metas and humans fight to determine the future of this world.

            Damian Wayne knows it’s a fight the world is going to lose in the long run. If the bombs don’t get them, the OMACs will. If the OMACs don’t get them, starvation and the plague will. The world around him is collapsing and all he can do is try to staunch the flow of civilian blood within his own city.

            Gotham breeds strong hearts. Her people have a way of surviving. And as Batman, the very embodiment of his promise to his father to protect this city, Damian owes them his help.

            “Over here!”

            Damian raises his head, turning approach his protégé, the new Nightwing. He’s Dick’s kid - some twenty years Damian’s junior – and Damian likes to think Dick’d be proud of how he turned out, all things considered. Damian isn’t the easiest to get along with and he certainly hadn’t ever expected to take on a Robin, let alone raise a kid, not with the way things had been going.

            But he had.

            “Give me a hand,” the Kid says, leaning against a concrete slab. Damian puts his back against it as well, firmly planting his feet, and together they push until the slab gives away.

            Beneath it is a half-collapsed laundry room. The woman, a red-head, is dead, crushed by one of the support beams. The boys clinging to her body are not. Dark haired and soot-stained, they stare out of the rubble at him with hauntingly familiar blue eyes. It reminds him instantly and terribly of the night he’d pulled Dick’s kid out of the ashes of the first bombings, away from the corpse he’d once called brother. It leaves a bitter taste and he wonders if the Kid sees the similarities, too.

            If he does, the Kid doesn’t let it slip – he’s seen too much death since the wars started.

            Damian descends slowly, so as not to alarm them or upset the surviving structure, and holds out his hand. “Come on. It’s time to go.”

            The boys stare at him as if he were not really there.

            He sighs and makes a move to pick up the younger one, the toddler. When he touches him, it’s as if a spark suddenly lights and the younger one is screaming while the older one charges him. He’s only a kid, though, maybe a little older than Damian was when he came to Gotham, and he stands a better chance of hurting himself on Damian’s armor than he does actually hurting Damian himself.

            “Kid, stop,” he says, catching one of the smaller fists and wincing as the boy cries out. “We’re here to help.”

            The Kid drops down soundlessly and gently pries the boy’s fist out of Damian’s grasp. “Your mom asked us to look after you.”

            It’s a lie they’ve told a thousand times, but it works and the fight leaves the older boy. In his arms, the toddler stills, fat tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

            “What’s your name?” the Kid asks.

            “Terry,” the older boy says, turning to look at him. “He’s Matt.”

            “Mommy’s s’eeping. Won’ get up,” the toddler says with the strange sort of denial that only the very young possess.

           The older boy looks at his brother and it’s an ugly, indecisive look.

            The smile the Kid gives the toddler is strained. “She’s just tired. We’re going to let her rest, okay?”

            “Kay,” the toddler says.

            Damian passes him to the Kid and watches as he climbs out. “Terry.”

            The boy’s head snaps around at the sound of his name.

            “Is there anyone else down here?” Damian asks.

            The boy shakes his head.

            “Come on,” he says and carefully lifts the boy out, handing him into the Kid’s waiting hands. He looks back at the woman for a moment, sighs, and then climbs back out.

            In the light, the boys are ghostly, covered in concrete dust, and they blink at the sky in silent awe. The Kid turns to him, smiling a little, and for a single painful heartbeat, he’s the spitting image of Dick.

            “So what are we going to do with them?” he asks. “Take them to the refugee camp?”

            It’s understaffed, overcrowded, and woefully running short on supplies. Gotham isn’t the only city suffering in this war. Soon, it’ll be full of disease, fighting and corruption, just like all the others that have come before. An older kid by himself might be able to survive, but not with the younger tagging along.

            As if he knew they were talking about him, the older of the two boys, Terry, turns his head to look at them.

            There’s something about his face, the familiar shape of his eyes and jawline, and Damian finds himself thinking of the pictures of his father and himself as a child. The resemblance is uncanny.

            “Uncle D?” the Kid asks.

            Damian blinks, taking a breath, and starts forward. “We’ll take them with us.”

 

* * *

 

            97 years later, Damian watches in horror as the Kid’s grandson, Tommy Grayson aka Red Hood, is ripped apart by the OMAC virus, Fire Sky. The gigantic blue monstrosity wheels, crushing the remains of Tommy’s armor beneath its feet as it fires and reduces the Blue Scarab and the latest Black Canary to ash. It then turns its sights on him and Damian knows he cannot mourn now – he’s got a job to do.

            He shouts out his computer’s findings, launching his power armor into overdrive as the new Shazam, Sahar Saheen, leaps into battle beside him.

            Red light bathes them and he crashes to the floor of the moon base, servos overloading and he hits the ground hard enough to see stars. He swears he heard his vertebrae crack and knows that maybe this time he won’t make it back to the Manor’s Lazurus Pit.

            Plastic Man’s clone shrieks in pain, splattering across the walls. And then he can hear something – Captain Atom.

            Captain Atom’s fighting back. He’s screaming at Kara, begging her to tell him what happened to create this timeline before he gets pulled back into the past.

            Damian curses, struggling to lift himself, but the armor’s heavy, he is badly injured, and, with a sudden twinge of real horror, he realizes the bottom portion of his sealed cowl is shattered, exposing him to the virus. Tommy’s death replays in the back of his head and he can feel his gorge rising, but he chokes it down and barks out his last orders as Batman.

            Then he collapses, thinks of all the Robins, Nightwings, Red Hoods and Batgirls he’s trained, and of all the family he’s buried in his long life. He thinks of Tommy, who was always a light in the darkness – “Wake up, old man!” -, of Terry and Matt who were as close to sons as he’s ever had – “I want to help... we want to help!” -, and of the Kid, who was so much like Dick it hurt – “What was my dad like when he was Nightwing?” He thinks of Dick – “I’m proud of you, Damian” -, of Jason – “You’ve got guts, kid” -, of Tim – “Maybe you’re okay after all, jerk” -, of Alfred – “Your move, young master,” -, and last of all he thinks of his father – the memory of his rare smile of approval, the hand on his head as he’d tried to emulate with all his children, all his protégés, and those words he’d always wanted to hear: “I love you, son.”

            Damian closes his eyes as the explosions start and then...

 

            Time unravels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References Justice League: Generation Lost #14


	2. Chapter 2

            “The victory is in the preparation,” his father used to say.

            Damian knows he hasn’t been the best of sons, nor the most obedient, but that’s one lesson of his father’s he’s revered above all else. Some call it _cheating_ , others call it _psychotic_ , but it works for him, for Neo Gotham, like nothing else can.

            He’s not the Batman Neo Gotham wants, he knows that. He’s not his father. He’s not Grayson. Hell, Gordon rubs that in every chance she gets – not that he can blame her. She loved his dad in her own way and holds him responsible for his death. And, in a way, he _is_.

            This suit, _Batman_ , his father’s legacy and the promises he’d made his father that night are his penance. And everything he’s done now is a means towards fulfilling that promise, even if it meant selling his soul at the crossroads to the Devil himself. There’s a spot in hell waiting for him, carved with the names of everyone he’s destroyed.

            The hot summer air tastes of sulfur and blood and, licking his lips, he can almost taste the black emptiness in his heart.

            The Apocalypse is coming. He can feel it in his bones.

            Damian breathes out, rising from his position.

            He’s not going to let it happen. He’s got a plan. It’s taken years to pull together in secret, _years_ , and he can’t wait to see the look on the Old Dragon’s face when he drags him kicking and screaming back to hell.

            It’ll be a suicide mission. He’s got no illusions about that. The Dragon will get what it wants, in the end. The Batman will die.

            But Damian’s been planning for this since he was fourteen and he knows truths that even the Devil ignores: the Batman cannot die, not so long as his city needs him. When one dies, another will rise to fill his place. It is the way of things and the ultimate triumph of his father, this legacy which survived his death and will continue to survive into the beyond.

            Damian’s cheated death long enough. He’s just been waiting now, waiting for the right one, delaying the Apocalypse until he finds a worthy successor.

            And here, on this street, he thinks he’s found that successor.

            He’s been watching this gang for a while, but it’s the boy that doesn’t fit. Of all the candidates he’s considered, he likes this one best. The boy’s new, from a decent home with recently divorced parents, and he’s obviously a little leery of what he’s doing, but so desperate to impress the big kids that he’s willing to accept the position of lookout. The boy is fast, agile, and there’s something about his face, something of Damian’s own self, that is jarringly reflected in his eyes and bone structure. It’s almost eerie.

            He reaches down, grabs the boy by the shoulder and tugs him up, ignoring the squeal of terror from the preteen. The boy’s scream for help alerts the older delinquents and they scatter immediately, stolen goods forgotten. He will attend to them later.

            “Let me go! Who are you?” the boy shrieks, beating his small fist against Damian’s arm uselessly.

            “I’m your new best friend,” he says, shifting into the light.

            The boy’s face pales considerably, fresh horror washing over his face. “Oh slag me.”

 

* * *

 

            It’s June, the summer heat unusually high, and there’s something wrong with the way the air tastes, the way it seems to choke and suffocate him. It makes Terry’s skin crawl.

            In the distance, lighting crackles, but promises no release from the broiling heat – it’s just heat lightning.

            Something strange, animal, runs down his spine, telling him to run. It’s weird, reminds him of that incident from a few years ago, the one that put him on the straight and narrow and landed him in the Boss’s employ.

            As if summoned by the very thought of him, Terry’s cell sputters to life: _“Boss calling.”_

            He accepts the call.

            _“There’s armor in your cycle. Change and bring the Sword to 5 th and Main.”_

            “Be right there,” Terry says.

            He’s been asked to wear armor before, but the Sword wasn’t standard equip. It’s special, something about sealing light and heaven, and he’s been hanging onto it for the Boss. He guesses whatever dreg it’s needed for just strolled along into town.

            He opens the cycle’s secret compartment and pauses, foreboding curdling in his gut as the black material spills into his hands, red bat triumphantly blazing across the breast. This is not his normal armor. This is the Boss’s prototype armor.

            It’s not like him, but the Boss always has his reasons and Terry’s learned not to ask. The Boss knows what he’s doing, even if he can be slagging annoying about it, and he’s never let him down.

            And yet…

            Terry’s worried.

            There’s something about the way the suit was given to him, the way it conforms so easily to his body, and the way the bat settles across his chest that makes his guts clench in fear, as if there was more to this than just asking him to armor up. Maybe his Boss, the great invulnerable Damian, is not coming back this time.

            He streaks across the city in the armor, cowl down and the Sword ready. Flames and lightning lick across his armor as he draws close to 5th and Main and when he finally bursts through, it is into a warzone, the very picture of hell itself. And there, wrestling a howling beast of something nightmarish and ever-shifting to a standstill within a circle of glowing salt and painted runes, stands the Boss.

            “Now, Kid,” the Boss growls across the comms. “End it. Use the Sword.”

            The air is filled with sulfurous fumes and voices, hissing of hell and that the Bat is no longer invulnerable, that he will die.

            Terry hesitates.

            “Focus, Kid! Tune them out,” the Boss says. “Demons lie. I’ll be fine. Protect the city.”

            The whispers increase in volume and desperation, wailing that this Batman lies and cheats and is a horrible monster, a killer.

            Terry grips the sword tightly and plunges forward on rocket propelled boots, ignoring the voices of the demons and of his horrified Boss. His Boss lies. He knows that. But the Boss is no monster and there’s a demon to stop. The white-hot, glowing Sword slides through his Boss, through the thing, and, around them, the runes and salt turn white as well, the glow increasing in intensity.

            Terry hangs on to the burning Sword, closing his eyes as the explosion starts, and _wishes_.

 

            Years ago, Damian has an odd sense of foreboding, as if a strange hand has just brushed his neck, and suggests that they try another entrance. His father gives the fourteen-year-old a questioning look, but doesn’t say anything. Later, neither mentions the sniper they subdue or that the sniper had his gear aimed at their previous entry point.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References Batman #666


	3. Chapter 3

            The first time Damian sees Terry McGinnis is on New Year’s Eve and it’s through his father’s backdoor into the police mainframe. He’s a handsome toddler with dark black hair and striking blue eyes, dressed in a red shirt and blue coveralls. Kidnap vic, high priority. His parents are blue collar, hardly enough money to their name for it to make sense, but Damian’s not so surprised: the kidnapper, January, aka 2-Face-2, is hardly in his right mind and the boy has enough of a superficial resemblance to the toddler son of Neo Gotham’s resident superstar software programming power couple that he’s sure this is a case of mistaken identity.

            The second time he sees him, Damian resists the revulsion that courses through his gut at the sight of an innocent toddler transformed into a hideous, chalk-white grotesque by the Laughing Death toxin. The Joker is dead. His poison lives. It’s an affront to Damian’s very nature and he can’t help it when he does as his predecessor did so many years ago; he kills the Joker, injecting the antitoxin into the baby, and leaves as the healing rain purges the rest of the Joker’s ghost from his city.

            At last, when the green has fully bled itself from Terry’s hair and he is once again the baby he recognizes from the photo, Damian gathers him up and carries him home. The boy is surprisingly quiet and complacent, exhausted by the ordeal, and sleeps for most of the ride across the city.

            There is an utterly surreal moment when his parents – oddly, both redheads - open their door to see him there, their sleepy son cradled in one arm, and, for a moment, they are frozen in awe and wonder.

            “He’s okay,” Damian tells them, moving to offer the baby back to them. “I cleaned him up, made sure the toxin is completely gone from his system.”

            The mother, Mary McGinnis, takes the baby from his arms and Terry only mildly fusses before he folds himself into the familiar embrace of his mother’s arms. “Oh, Terry,” she says through tears, and kisses her son’s head.

            “You may need to give him more fluids, keep an eye on his electrolytes,” Damian adds, awkwardly moving back.

            The father, Warren, moves suddenly, arm outstretched. “Wait!”

            He shouldn’t, but he does.

            “Thank you,” Warren says.

            The ‘ _for him, for everyone, for everything’_ is unsaid, but palpable in the way the man’s face contorts as he searches for the right words.

            Damian smiles and disappears, leaving behind a family reunited and taking with him a long-forgotten warmth in his heart.

            He hopes he never has to see them again.

 

* * *

 

            A few hours ago, Terry was so furious that he hoped he’d never see Damian Wayne again.

            Now, he’s praying he’s not too late.

            Terry sees the words spray-painted all over the Batcave, bright and horrible, and races down the steps with renewed urgency. “Please, god, no. Wayne!”

            His footing slips and he nearly stumbles into the broken glass from the display cases, but he’s not known for being agile for nothing and he catches himself before he can fall. “Wayne!”

            There’s a groan from up ahead, near the computers, and a broken, wheezing giggle follows it.

            Terry darts around the corner and practically scrambles to his mentor’s side, nearly tripping over the bloodied staff on the floor. Damian’s a pale, sweating wreck, beaten and bloody, his face contorted in a rictus grin with eyes reddened and pupils blown from the toxin; Terry’s no medic, but he knows this is bad.

            “Table,” Damian manages to force out between laughs, body straining from pain and effort. “Under… quick.”

            Terry nods, quickly making his way to the workbench, and manages to find an intact vial of anti-toxin, one that had rolled free and avoided the destruction. He loads it into the hypo-gun and races back, all the while Damian’s earlier warnings about the Joker toxin and the time limit before the damage is permanent pounding in his skull in time with his heart.

            The hiss as Terry depresses the trigger is audible and the effect is near instant, Damian’s rigid muscles unlocking as he slips back into unconsciousness.

            He waits there, with his mentor, until Commissioner Gordon comes and helps him take him to the medical bay. She gives him orders, grumbling about how it’s been a while, but she’s more familiar with the tech than he is and they both know taking Damian to a hospital is flat out impossible under the circumstances. And while they wait for him to come back around, she tells Terry about the Joker, about poor Tim Drake, and how they’d done everything in their power to make sure the madman’s legacy was destroyed, but it seemed like the bastard still had some way to harass them from beyond the grave.

            She tells him about 2-Face-2 and the Laughing Death.

            When his mentor comes around, he’s grumpier than ever.

            “I guess this makes us even, huh?” Terry says.

            Damian looks at him like he’s grown a second head and Terry hastily informs him of what the Commissioner had said.

            For a moment, Damian’s silent, frowning.

            “She shouldn’t have told you. You and I weren’t supposed to cross paths again,” Damian says, wincing as his bandages pull on his damaged ribs. “I didn’t want you getting the wrong idea, thinking this was destiny or something idiotic like that. And yet you showed up on my doorstep anyway. Idiot.”

            Terry leans back in his chair, looking deep into the cave. He runs a hand over his face and smiles. “It’s good to have you back, Wayne.”

            Damian’s quiet a moment and then he snorts, smiling just a little. “Likewise, McGinnis. Now, shift it, we’ve got a case to solve.”

 

            Thirty years earlier, an assassin kills the ten-year-old Damian while he’s on patrol with his father and the timeline crumbles, a new one shifting into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References Batman #700 - "Time and the Batman"


	4. Chapter 4

            Terry likes to explore when he’s got the time. There’s a lot of history in the Cave: weapons, costumes and artifacts of a time now long since passed. Everything here has a story, though he knows the stories behind only a handful and only those relevant to his cases or training.

            Most of the stuff Terry could look up, he knows that. The computer’s full of reports and files on every case the old man ever worked, every single one drier than Terry’s textbooks. It’s only when Bruce talks about old cases that Terry gets a sense of how much these cases really impacted the old man. But Bruce doesn’t like to talk about the past and Terry knows better than to ask. If the old man wants to tell him, he’ll do it when he wants to and not before.

            The question that really bugs him he can’t ask Bruce.

            Terry knows he’s not the first kid the old man’s trained – that much is obvious from the display cases of various uniforms. Most of them look like they were made for kids about his age or for adults, but there’s one that doesn’t fit at all. The _R_ on the chest suggests that it’s for the _Robin_ identity, but the costume looks like it was made for a child, maybe about the same age as his little brother, Matt.

            Had there really been a Robin so young?

            The very idea of someone his kid brother’s age going out and doing what he does every night is unsettling and he wants to ask Bruce about it, but Terry doesn’t dare consider asking about his predecessors. If anything, there’s always been this unspoken understanding that this is one subject that’s completely and utterly taboo. He doesn’t even have access to their files.

            He’s not stupid, no. Something happened, or maybe a series of somethings and whatever it was, they all left and only Bruce remained, a broken, bitter old man with nothing but his memories and a crumbling manor.

            So, instead, Terry wanders the halls of the manor while Bruce lingers in the Cave, doing his repairs, and searches for his own answers among the dusty halls and draped furniture.

            There’s an inherent cold and overbearing presence of sadness that pervades the entire building. It almost feels like it should be haunted and maybe it is, if only by the weight of its owner’s memories. Bruce is a miser when it comes to his memories and the manor is no less occupied with them than the Cave is.

            In one room, Terry finds pictures. They cover the walls, going back more than a century and a half. Generation upon generation of the Wayne family is displayed here. He follows the generations around the walls until he finds the old man and his parents and is almost taken aback at the sight of the old man as a happy child. After that, the next portrait he sees of Bruce is next to a teen and an old man, and then in the next one, the teen is older and another teen has joined them in the frame. The second teen disappears from the frame and a new one joins them, but there is a somberness that wasn’t in the last one. The last portrait is larger, Bruce smiling, flanked by the two teens that were in the last one, the older of the two now clearly a grown man. There’s a large dog in front of him and a boy, hardly older than Matt. The boy has a grin on his face, one eerily reminiscent of the one Matt gets when he’s being a brat, but otherwise the boy is the very image of a younger Bruce.

            There are no more pictures after that. It’s as if they just stopped.

            Upstairs, he finds more evidence of his predecessors in the empty and packed away rooms. In the dusty, faded photographs and progression of belongings, Terry sees the majority of them grow, disappear and reappear. The youngest boy is only in a handful, always the same.

            The last room Terry visits is different than the rest. It feels more like a tomb and he finds himself instinctively hesitating in the doorway. Books still sit on the desk, open, and he can see half-finished schematics pinned underneath, yellowed and fading but recognizable as the precursors to his own equipment. A child’s clothes are haphazardly thrown over one of the chairs, the shoes next to them carelessly discarded and the wardrobe still hanging half open. None of the furniture is draped, nothing is packed away.

            It’s as if one day, this room’s occupant left and never came back.

            Terry wants to ask, but he has a feeling he knows what happened.

            A few days later, he finds the family plot on the grounds and his suspicion is confirmed; perhaps most jarring of all, Damian Wayne was only two years older than Matt when he died.

 

* * *

 

            Terry supposes it’s not without some irony that he’s breaking into the display cases a second time. But, unlike the first time, he’s not doing it because he’s got vengeance on the mind and needs a means to that end. This time, it’s because Matt’s in trouble and it’s entirely his fault. Terry, not Batman, got Matt into this and Terry, not Batman, has to get him out of it before it’s too late.

            Bruce definitely wouldn’t approve of what he’s going to do. He’d tell Terry to suit up and deal with it as Batman, or he’d tell him to stay home and let the commissioner handle it.

            But that’s the thing – this is personal. It’s something he’s got to do, as _Terry McGinnis_. Much as it chafes against his training and how weird it is to make the distinction between what is him and what is the Bat, he knows in his gut that the Batman has to sit this one out. Bruce wouldn’t understand and Terry doesn’t have time to ask him for permission.

            He pops the lock on the case and murmurs a quiet apology to the ghost of Damian. He carefully removes the small red Nomex and Kevlar blend vest from the stand. It’s laughably small in his hands, about the size of his brother’s favorite shirt, and, again, he’s struck by how small and utterly young this Robin was.

            Shaking it off, he presses the vest against his chest and zips his jacket up over it, concealing it.

            Bruce will be furious, Terry knows that, but maybe he’ll understand when it’s over.

            Terry’s not worried about himself. He can take care of himself just fine. His little brother, on the other hand - he’s just a kid. He doesn’t have the training or experience that Terry does and Terry can’t be worrying about his safety when the bullets start flying. And while the vest is pretty old, at least with it, Matt’s got a chance.

            “I’ll bring it back,” Terry whispers, shooting a look over his shoulder at the remaining parts of the uniform in the case.

            The mask stares back at him silently and he resists the urge to shiver as he turns to leave.

 

* * *

 

            Terry inwardly winces under Bruce’s gaze and, once again, rubs his thumb over the hole in the vest. “Uh, I’m sorry. I’ll fix it?”

            The old man’s eyes narrow. “You weren’t wearing the suit,” Bruce accuses at last, glowering.

            It was stupid, Terry knows that, and he should have known better. How was he supposed to know that they’d just shoot him in the chest like that? “Yeah,” he admits hesitantly.

            Matt’s probably going to have nightmares for life – that is, if he doesn’t start to get curious about how exactly he _got_ Batman to lend him a bulletproof vest. And his mother’s absolutely going to kill him when she finds out he got _shot_. Slag it, and here he was thinking facing Bruce would be bad.

            “Look, I’m sorry,” Terry says, standing and turning over the vest in his hands. “It was something _I_ had to do, not Batman.”

            The _R_ stares back at him.

            “The vest was supposed to be for Matt,” Terry adds. “I still had it under my jacket.”

            Bruce is silent, his expression inscrutable. Then, the old man turns away, facing the cases. “Your brother… is he all right?”

            “A little shaken up, but the twip is stronger than he looks,” Terry says, smiling a little. “He’ll be okay.”

            Bruce is quiet. He reaches out to touch the cape within the open case.

            Terry winces again, once again reminded of the bullet hole he’d managed to get in the borrowed vest. “About the, uh… I can fix it, if you want.”

            He’s got no idea _how_ , but he’ll try.

            Bruce doesn’t say anything as he lets the cape fabric fall through his fingers and the look on his face says he’s a million miles away. At last, Bruce speaks and, when he does, it’s heavy with pain: “You remind me of him, you know. You and your brother. You’re a lot alike.”

            The old man pauses, looking for the right words. “Damian had his own way of doing things. Drove me crazy, worrying.”

            Terry looks at the vest in his hands again. “Huh.”

            Bruce glances over his shoulder. “He would have liked you.”

            “I wish I’d got to know him,” Terry says. In his head, he sees Matt bundled into the red vest, eyes wide with adrenaline, and tries to ignore how jarringly similar it had made him look to Bruce’s long dead son.

            Bruce gently takes the vest from Terry’s hands and hangs it back up. He then closes the case, his face lined with grief. “He was a good kid. I just wish his mother had seen it.”

            At that, Terry gives the old man a curious look, but Bruce is already shuffling away. He lets out a little sigh and glances at the case.

            “Guess I should thank you for the save,” he says quietly.

            And maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Terry almost swears he sees the cape move.

            He shakes his head to clear it and follows his mentor.

 

* * *

 

            A little over forty years earlier, Talia wakes with a start. Her heart races as she looks around the room, one hand slipping to rest protectively over her abdomen, but the nightmare has vanished entirely.

            Beside her, Bruce stirs and wakes, murmuring, “What is it?”

            “A dream,” she whispers and turns to regard him. Behind her eyes, she still sees the splatter of a child’s – _her child’s_ – blood. “Bruce?”

            He opens his eyes, curious.

            It is several hours before anyone in the al Ghul compound realizes that the lovers have vanished and, by that time, they are already safely back in Gotham. A storm breaks on the horizon, an omen of the Demon’s terrible rage manifest and, one by one, a hundred futures shatter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Referencing Batman Inc. Leviathan Strikes and (at the end) Son of the Demon


	5. Chapter 5

            Damian looks out his window and into the heart of the once-great city known as Gotham. It is nothing like the one in the history books. Plague and violence has reduced it to a pale, shuddering shadow of itself. From here, he can see the distant fires of riots flickering on the horizon as the survivors continue to tear each other apart. Occasionally, muzzle-flashes spark in the darkness as desperate looters get too close to the apartment complex gates and the guards are forced to turn them back with lethal force.

            It’s not safe to go outside, he knows that. His father _died_ outside and his mother hammers the lesson home with each sparring session.

            “You are not ready,” she tells him. “You must train harder.”

            She tells him this again and again. When he fails to block her properly, when getting up seems impossible and the weapons she hands him are like lead in his small hands, these are the words he always hears.

            And yet, still he looks out on the world beyond this apartment and wishes to be normal, like the other children he sometimes sees from his window. He wants so badly to play with them and let them know his real name, even if it’s just once.

            “You are not like other children, Damian,” his mother always says, “There is a great and noble destiny before you. Never forget that.”

            Then, she brushes his hair away from his forehead and kisses him there. “One day, you will know what it is. Until then, you must prepare.”

            Damian looks out the window, placing his hand on the cool, bulletproof glass and dreams of a future beyond these walls.

 

* * *

 

            He is twenty-five when he finally learns of his destiny and leaves the apartments behind forever. He flies freely now, his father’s son, and hope comes, first to Gotham, and then to the world as he restores the legacy that is his birthright and recruits more allies to his cause. His mother has trained him well.

            “Can you see him, Bruce?” Talia asks, “Our son.”

            She is no longer able to protect Damian, even if she wants to.

 

* * *

 

            Terry watches the moon rise over Gotham from his room. It’s hard to think that when he was just a baby this city was a plague-infested war zone. Parts of it still are broken beyond measure, but new buildings dominate the skyline and it seems that more rise every day. In the moonlight, the city is ethereal and, if he tries hard enough, he can just barely make out the shadow of a bat in the darkness.

            There are lots of bats in Gotham – everybody knows that – but there’s only one that he wants to see. He can’t help it. It’s as if something inside him calls out and, even though he knows he’s just a kid and it’s not _safe_ , he still wants to see Batman.

            “Maybe someday,” his mother says, “When you’re older.”

            It’s always the same. He’s never ready. Always, he’s told to wait just a little longer, until he’s a little older, and then he can go out, but it never happens.

            So he wishes and hopes, dreaming of being extraordinary, more than just another one of the many similar-featured children in this facility. More than anything, he wants to be a hero.

            “There’s so much more to you than you know, Terry,” his mother tells him and holds him tightly. “I just wish things were different.”

            She kisses him on the head and doesn’t let go, her gaze distant and troubled. “You’re growing up so fast, so fast, but you’re still just a boy. My baby boy.”

            Terry places his hand on the glass and leans forward, until his forehead touches the cool surface, and dreams of freedom.

 

* * *

 

            He is sixteen when the illusion of his family comes crashing down around his ears in a gang raid. Gotham may be better than it was, but the gangs still have a stranglehold on the city and even once-secure facilities like Cadmus are not a match for some of the most determined and violent of criminals. He’s suspected for a while that something wasn’t quite normal about his family. It’s hard not to notice when all the kids in the building look something alike, but it still cuts deep when he’s told he can’t save his dad because he was _made_ for a _purpose_ he can’t even begin to comprehend. His mother has tried to shield him for so long.

            “Where’s your brother?” Mary asks him, her eyes wide with terror, “Matt!”

            His face sets in a grim, determined line and she understands, at last, what Waller has been trying to recreate.

 

* * *

 

            It is here they meet.

            They end up back to back – two boys who once dreamed of something more – and though hardly a word is spoken between them, it seems they understand each other in an instant. They move as one, a strange instinctive synchrony to their movements.

            Barbara Gordon is completely unsurprised when, not a week later, she finds Damian’s League of Batmen has a new member, one that is entirely too like Damian for her liking.

            “Just what I needed, _two_ of you,” she complains.

            The two share a look and laugh.

 

* * *

 

            It is a little over forty years earlier and Talia dreams of the future. She dreams of love as she has never had. Then, she falls into a nightmare of her father’s rage, of the full horrific breadth of the plans he weaves for this world, of the blood of billions, of her beloved’s ideals perverted and of all those he cared for dying. She dreams of the child she now carries – their son -, of an army of sons and daughters, rising from the ashes and blood as messengers of hope and an aged oracle that sings to them from her chariot their orders: protect the innocent, bring justice to this benighted earth, _you are Batman and Batman is more than any man or woman._

            In the dream, she holds her beloved’s skull.

            In waking, she holds his head between her hands.

            “Talia?” he murmurs sleepily, “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing,” she whispers and places a kiss upon his forehead.

            He will understand in time. He may not forgive her, but he _will_ understand. She will protect him and everything he stands for, even if it means betraying him.

            The next day, Qayin attacks and she tells the first of many lies.

            A nightmarish future dissipates like smoke on the wind, replaced with one of a subtlety fading legend among the billions of destinies now restored. Her beloved is safe, her son will be sent away to be protected, and the army of sons and daughters sleeps. She will protect them until she dies.

            Her own future is left blank to her, an ominous question in the wind.

            It is acceptable.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Refers to Brotherhood of the Bat, League of Batmen 1&2, and Son of the Demon


	6. Chapter 6

            It’s late. The hot summer day has faded into a cool, starless night. The local multiplex glows bright in the night, giant marquees for the latest reboot of the much beloved _Grey Ghost_ franchise pulsing through their automated trailers and lighting the streets in bursts of color. Slowly, the building disgorges wave after wave of patrons in every direction, young and old, rich and poor alike, from within. An air of palpable delight and excitement suffuses the area, now thick with conversation and cheering as this horde of humanity spills outwards and lauds a newfound hit.

            If there is anything so astounding about the amount of people that had been there, it is the speed in which they rapidly disperse themselves among the nearest public transit and parking garages of Gotham. Soon, there are only handfuls of people left – the customers who lingered for the facilities, the occasional exhausted employee – and these stragglers show no more mind to each other than if they themselves did not exist. It is, after all, late and it has been a long night.

            Beneath the pale yellow glow of the streetlamps, a happy family turns from the beaten path and starts down the back alley, taking a shortcut to the train station. The boy, just a child really, is happy and mimes his favorite moves with uncoordinated enthusiasm to the amusement of his parents. The woman is beautiful, a bejeweled necklace around her slender throat, and the man at her side is dark-haired and handsome, with a face that is eerily reminiscent of one long since grown old and wizened. They continue walking this ill-lit path, their footsteps echoing in the silence, completely unaware that they are being observed.

            A shadow detaches from the darkness and the man raises his eyes, startled. He pushes the child behind him and the woman gasps, reeling back.

            Then, there is a flash of light and the sound of crunching bone as something large and black descends from above, tearing the threat back into the consuming shadows. In the dull yellow circle of the streetlights, the family stands; they are untouched but stunned.

            Something darker than shadows stands, slowly revealing the sprawling crimson shape of a bat.

            In his earpiece, Terry can hear the soft exhalation of a breath, but whether it is his own or that of his mentor’s, he cannot tell.

            “Go, _now_ ,” he growls and the family obeys. Only the man turns to look back, a silent look of gratitude on his face, a face that is far too much like one from all those years ago to be coincidence.

            For a moment, Terry wonders. A thousand possibilities flutter through his mind. Then he turns his attention to his prisoner and thinks of it no further.

            Gotham is a place of echoes. One more is only natural.

 

* * *

 

            A woman hooded in shadows examines the threads of a thousand worlds. Her fingers, glowing red and swirling with light, skim the surface of countless possibilities. A decisive flick pares away those she is uninterested in. She dips her fingers deeper into the whirling threads and pulls up three.

            These are her goal. Woven together, they will be stronger, perhaps just strong enough. And yet, she pauses again, regarding some of the threads she has shuffled to the side.

            Perhaps, it would do to have a backup.

            Pandora smiles and leans back to wait.

            In her hands, the threads of possibility pulse.

 

* * *

 

            Damian, Robin, takes a breath, his death nothing more than a ruse perpetrated by his father. His parents, in their war of attrition, are as titans racing to outwit each other.

            He closes his eyes and dreams.

            Someday, maybe, he will be Batman.

            And someday, maybe, he will cede it to a brother, if not in body, than in spirit.

            For now, the future beyond his door remains uncertain.

 

* * *

 

            A world and time far away, Terry looks up at the portrait of his mentor’s parents.

            He wonders.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Referencing the end of Son of the Demon, where Talia leaves her son at an orphanage with only Bruce's wedding gift to her (a bejeweled necklace) and he's adopted by a couple, completely ignorant of his heritage.


End file.
